


Five Days Later

by sheafrotherdon



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Episode Related, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-02
Updated: 2008-02-02
Packaged: 2017-10-11 22:44:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/117969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>". . . and then he actually diverted power to the secondary sub-systems," Rodney says, waving his spoon and shaking his head, sighing into his pudding cup as he spoons up the last of the chocolate that's no doubt standing between him and a general yelling spree.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Days Later

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed, as ever, by the lovely Dogeared.

". . . and then he actually _diverted power to the secondary sub-systems_ ," Rodney says, waving his spoon and shaking his head, sighing into his pudding cup as he spoons up the last of the chocolate that's no doubt standing between him and a general yelling spree. Teyla laughs softly, finishing up a mouthful of fruit, while Ronon knocks back more coffee (a new vice) and rolls his eyes. Around them hums the usual hubbub of the mess – the clank of dishes and dull snap of trays, the metallic music of silverware, the rise and fall of three dozen different voices, an occasional shout, a burst of laughter.

And that's when it hits John – grief; an iron band that closes around his lungs and forces out all the air; a prickle of sweat at the back of his neck and a burning behind his eyes.

"John?" Teyla says, leaning forward.

"Yeah, no, I'm – " He gets up, piles the detritus of his meal onto his tray. "Gotta be somewhere." And he walks away as casually as he can, needing distance but knowing only too well the way his team can read the architecture of his spine, the telling shadows in every well-schooled expression he's stored up these past sixteen years, the length of his stride – he slouches, tips his sandwich wrapper and leftover lettuce into the trash, stuffs his hands into his pockets as he heads towards anyplace that isn't here.

He finds anyplace on the seventeenth-floor balcony, tower three, whipped by wind and ozone and salt. John grips the railing, half bends over, breathes hard through his nose and tries like hell to push it all back down. But he remembers this emptiness, the way regret can pull and tug from the inside out, stretch his skin too tight over his bones – remembers it from being trapped inside a nightmare, believing Rodney was dead, and god, Rodney almost _died_ , Rodney would've died for him, Rodney could be dead, he thought Rodney was gone.

He stumbles backward, hits the wall and stands for a second, disoriented, before he slumps, slides down to the cool stone floor and sits, head bowed, knees unsteady beneath his hands. "Shit," he mutters, because he's been avoiding this kind of coming apart for years, and his father's gone, and he wanted it different, right to the end, Dave knew, Dave _never said_ , Dave fucking knew and was he lying? Did he send a message to Peterson, did some fool judge it wasn't important enough, were the words too bland? Did he throw it away himself, did the message come and he just didn't care? Did he, could he, would he, maybe – the thoughts tumble madly inside his head, and he covers his mouth, tries to keep the inarticulate sound of his own desperation inside. Fails. Closes his eyes.

He's no idea how long he stays out there – how long before the door slides open and he hears the soft thud of two steps, three. If he's honest, he knew this would happen – there's no place to hide when you have a chip in your neck, broadcasting your location twenty-four hours a day to anyone who's looking, and he wanted this – can feel the sharp edges of all that want now that every shred of pretense is crumpled in his fists.

"John."

And he doesn't open his eyes, but he feels the brush of Rodney's jacket against his arm as Rodney crouches beside him, not touching yet, not saying more. John pulls in a breath and reaches for a half-smirk, a cocky little smile, but they've all gone missing and he's leaning into Rodney's shoulder, curling against him, smashing his face into Rodney's solid frame and fisting Rodney's shirt between shaking fingers. His eyes are dry but that's only because he's drowning.

"Hey," Rodney says, and, "I know," and his arms slide around John as he awkwardly sits down without letting go, as he shifts without complaint and keeps him close. "I know, I know," and he presses his lips to the top of John's head, leaves them there, body a buffer against the wind that's screaming up from the sea, and John shatters into a deeper silence, a greater stillness, an aching, helpless trust that tastes something like the scotch he never got to drink at his father's wake.

"It's not about the money," he protests eventually.

Rodney doesn't say a word, tucks quiet around them both like a blanket, keeps holding on.


End file.
